Of Bruises and Blossoms
by Orahiko
Summary: Egyptian AU, eventual yaoi. Ryou is just a scribe who does ordinary things. Really.
1. City of the Dead

**Dedicated to** **Selanika, who will probably never read and appreciate it, but, nevertheless, I keep** **trying. Really.**

**Don't own. **

**………**

_He never lives until he sleeps. _

Alpha

Ryou, sixteen floods, third apprentice to the second scribe of the noble lord … and orphan, was…late.

Very late.

He ran frantically, palm fiber sandals slapping the hard baked earth, eyes unfocused; a stitch in his side calling attention to itself with every gasping breath. Bright sunlight caught in his hair, bleached like the bones of thieves that lay scattered on the edges of the outside riverbanks. He twisted suddenly, barely avoiding a collision with a sour-faced baker balancing a basket of bread, and scrambled forward, ungainly adolescent limbs a-kilter.

Success! He was almost there…almost there…Ow.

That hurt. A lot. Clutching his banged head he stumbled aside, ignoring the fragments of rubble caught in his still unshaved hair, and continued running.

No matter. He snarled almost audibly, dodging past blue shadowed alleys and mud brick walls, eagerly calling vendors, moving people in coarse wigs and white linen, past widening painted eyes following his actions with startled surprise. He ignored the stares, moving faster, past slow grey donkeys laden with papyrus and clusters of children, sleek, glossy ships with bright billowing sails and purple shadows on the glittering water; hurrying beside ebony skinned slaves with colorfully dyed litters on their sweating shoulders, and simply ran with all his might, muscles protesting.

The very sky seemed to taunt him, pale blue and far reaching, the relentless sun brutally heating still tender reddened skin, still not accustomed to the heat, even after living in such intensity for nearly all his life.

Ryou opened his eyes, stumbling to a halt in front of his intended destination. He sighed forlornly, fruitlessly tugging at his formerly white shenti, and frowned, a fine line appearing between his eyes. He entered the Tradesman's gate gingerly, rapping lightly on the coarse bleached wood.

A passing maid, hurrying with her armful of linen, saw him and promptly gasped, shrinking to the other side of the dark passageway with a hand over her mouth. He sighed. He wished he had time to console her, but he was already late, he thought unhappily. Why couldn't they just stay away?

Shrugging, he walked into a cool green garden, albeit small, and smiled awkwardly, and, he hoped, charmingly at the lady sitting on the edge of the brick lined pool, cool in sheer linen with a twist of lapis beads and ridged green gold at her throat.

"Lady," he murmured, his right hand moving to his left shoulder.

Lady Teana looked at him with eager, lotus blue eyes and smiled kindly, amused. Her fingers brushed the edges of the curious necklace, and she looked down quickly, tucking her hair behind her neck. She wore no wig, but merely a thin strip of gold-embroidered linen to hold her short hair back.

Ryou stood awkwardly, his dusty feet spread on the warm, recently swept brick. His gaze skittered over the neat drapes of linen and glanced at her hand, still holding crumbs of food intended for the garden's pet goldfish. An unusual lady, while seemingly naïve and distanced from court affairs and intrigues, she was still a favorite of the Pharaoh, and had continued to be so for several years. He felt a prickle brush his spine, and refrained from shuddering, keeping his eyes obediently fixed upon her feet. You didn't stay long in court in that sort of position without either being very, very clever, or very affluent. And rich, no doubt, but Pharaoh's favor opened up many opportunities to earn wealth. Many opportunities, and just as many to lose more.

Such as your life. No, you didn't disrespect someone who had wielded influence for that long, which in itself was enormously impressive. The fact that she did it without Shadow powers was even more astounding.

"I'm sorry for the delay, Excellency," he said softly, not lifting his eyes. He offered no excuses, no explanations. Doing so would waste even more of a noble's time, and while it could be considered bold not to attempt to shift blame, he was willing to take the chance.

That method of action had earned him his place here, if a small one. That reputation for discretion had brought him, a half trained scribe, with a bare knowledge of hieroglyphics to even sort through a jumble of old scrolls in an important house. He'd have to do better though, and not grow too complacent.

Ryou listened absently while Lady Teana chatted aimlessly about his work. Apparently they were merely records from the former pharaoh's reign that she wished to have determined if the current Pharaoh would be mildly interested in.

He blinked, not raising his head. Come to think of it, wasn't it more usual for the steward or a higher servant to instruct him about this? Perhaps she was simply meticulous. That made sense, he admitted to himself, eyeing the painstaking lines of the garden, the carefully cultivated blossoms, and the overdone jars. A bit of script, winding around one glazed jug caught his eye. _The army had slain ten thousand men, they have returned in safety, the army has captured a thousand living captives, they have returned in safety…_It trailed off at that point, hidden behind a stand of lotus and a few aimlessly placed bowls of greening water. He shifted, trying to read the rest but the lady had already risen, trailing blue and gold threaded scarves behind her drifting white skirt.

He followed her along the pathway, his footsteps slow, unaccountably disturbed by what he had read. True, captives were not in the least rare in Egypt, where they could range from 'diplomatic ambassadors' to tiny children, but still…._ the army has slain ten thousand men…_he was glad to be a scribe. A peaceful, if monotonous life suited him.

She led him to a small shed, overgrown with pale green vines and shaded with a cluster of palm trees on the outskirts of the white walled home. Ryou found himself in possession of a large copper key, and, with a final obeisance, was left to shift through the unknown contents of the shed. He glanced back and was almost blinded by the glitter of white and gold; the lady looked strangely out of place surrounded by shadowy foliage and thick palm trunks. He hurried to unlock the shed, the metal of the lock smooth and almost greasy underneath his fingers. With effort, he pushed the door open.

The shed, though by no means diminutive, was in lesser proportions to its unpromising outside. There was a jumble of extremely old, torn, and mixed scrolls at the bottom of the dirty painted floor, but nothing more threatening. He hastily wiped his hands on his shenti, and set to work.

Quite a few hours later, he had little of use or possible interest to anybody, much less the pharaoh. True, the scrolls were extremely old, but the writer appeared to be as intent on flattering the 'mighty prowess of the beloved Pharaoh, the Son of Ra, his Excellency's great army' as he was on detailing the affairs and gossip of that time. Which was all probably fiction. Some of the papyrus had gotten stuck to the other rolls, so that dividing the pages was a meticulous task, one that required a great deal of effort for little information.

He sighed tiredly, raking his fingers over his scalp, preoccupied. He was almost done, but something seemed off…somehow. The descriptions of the gilded nobles of the time could be accurate, but a few of the descriptions of the bloodshed in the army's conquests sounded…too accurate to have been painted from imagination.

Pushing the scrolls aside, he smiled at the servant who brought him food on a covered dish. The boy looked about thirteen, with sharp eyes and from what he could see in the short shoulder length lock most Egyptian boys sported, oddly colored hair. It was almost purple, with streaks of dingy red…he leaned forward doubtfully, his fascinated eyes following the unusual coloring…

"Is something wrong with you?" screeched a harsh voice.

Startled, Ryou almost fell over from his cross-legged position, sleeping legs refusing to obey him. So much for politeness and goodwill. He felt vaguely shocked, and noticed it amusedly, almost laughing aloud at his former paranoia.

"No," he said reassuringly, holding his hands in the air as a gesture of surrender, "It's nothing. Really. I just got a bit dizzy, that's all." He smiled nervously, hoping to placate the irate servant. Widening his eyes to add to the effect, he groped behind him, searching for a weapon, even a papyrus one, to help attempt a show of defiance if it truly came to blows. Not that it would help him.

The boy eyed him doubtfully, eyebrows furrowing above small irises. He glared angrily. "Well, back off," he sneered. "Unless you do want to pick a fight?"

Ryou shook his head vigorously. "Wouldn't dream of it," he assured the boy. He reached for the plate and opened it, blissfully ignoring the servant, who left, muttering softly. He bit into a grape happily, and reached for a nearby scroll to continue reading.

….

It was already dusk when Ryou walked down the streets of the City of the Dead, amid a dark flood of others, workers like him returning to their families and quarters at the end of yet another blistering, weary day. The rising walls of houses along the streets and leaning trees shadowed the faces of the crowds, men were barely visible save the faint outline of figures and the paleness of linen shentis, punctuated briefly by the flash of copper or enamel from amulets and bracelets. They surrounded Ryou in a silent stream, unwaveringly moving, some jovial from beer, others silent and tense, while faint streaks of orange and umber traced the tips of the highest walls and outlined reaching branches.

The lady had been fairly pleased by his work, if not useful to her, it was a documentary to add to her library, and that was good enough for nobles, he guessed. He had been given a handful of coins and a promise of a few word of earnest approval both to his master and in the occasion any others might question her of his services, and he was content to simply walk along the street, savoring the gentling heat and mild breeze.

He reached his quarters and entered silently, slipping into the room where all four apprentices slept.

….

The city awoke slowly, mud-brick walls and homes dyed gold by the sunlight, slender white and black birds clouding the air above the dazzle of the turquoise water and embroidered sails. Smoke arose from gilded and painted temples, bewigged priests and priestesses cloaked in the shadows of early morning walked distantly too and fro. Eager fishermen cast out grey brown nets smoothly, anchored in small dark coracles, and with the same purpose and rhythm as the surrounding farmers.

Ryou watched them with hooded eyes, restlessly fleeing his quarter to avoid rest and sleep and something vague and indefinable taking form in his dreams. He smiled sweetly and wrapped his cloak further around his bare arms to protect them from the damp, cold, bright air.

It was a lovely day to sit inside. Ryou sat one of half a dozen or so braided rugs, diligently scratching at the papyrus on the tablet that he was assigned to. None of the other boys around him spoke, which would have been attributed to the fact they were possibly as smart as rocks, and maybe less, or for the presence of their teacher.

The scribe was short, with folds of copper skin across his face and knees and elbows, and a wide white smile that wasn't particularly pleased. He tended to wear ordinary shentis, properly pleated and tied with beads in his hair and sash to denote prosperity, which indicated he was a fairly good scribe. His name was unordinary and hard to remember, and, as an apprentice, Ryou merely called him master.

There was possibly only one other person in the class of any small interest, and that was the third apprentice, Duke. Barely a flood older than Ryou, he was both skillful and deft, but seemed to radiate an air of contempt towards the sometimes-humble profession of a scribe.

Untitled, yet seemingly comfortable with his strange name, he had reached manhood early, and grown his hair to his shoulders, which his acquaintances insisted was a wig. Ryou often wondered absently at the practice, but decided he was in no position to inquire, and deferred.

Eventually the day ended. Ryou frowned, barely furrowing his brow as he shelved today's work in the cool clay room, his thoughts lingering over Lady Teana's assignment. It seemed like much money for little work, yet the thought of a dishonest mistake was temporarily troubling, nothing more. How odd it was that the records should speak of a thousand captives, though from the allotment of provisions the army could have barely marched to the outskirts of the desert, much less a foreign land. Most of the captives took were often the result of long, blistering marches or travel by boat, yet Egypt was a vast land.

Aye, that was it. Egypt was certainly a great empire, and now and then it was understandable that a few territories should grow bold and attempt to strike back at their captors.

He walked along the riverbank, dark mud beneath his feet, and pitied the avengers, so enterprising and yet so foolish, to dare to defy such a nation. Yet, Egypt was not an unfair taskmaster, especially not now, when the young Pharaoh daily grew wise and twice loved by his people, strong and stern and upright as a spear, though not as stern as his father was rumored to have been…

The former pharaoh was reportedly grim, from what Ryou had heard, and had ruled with a harsh hand, yet Egypt had prospered, so truly he could not have been a _terrible_ king. Or perhaps he had been, but he was dead now, may he rest in the afterlife.

Ryou shuddered, the cool of the mud and the faint hum of insects no longer as reassuring as they had been a few minutes ago. He turned his attentions towards the familiarity of the ink-dark Nile, and dismissed the thought.

…

_Such vagrancy, so dwelleth the jackal, the hound, the cat, all creatures of endlessly winding paths and without peace, save within love …_Such a fool that poet was, thought Bakura, idle and malevolent, so simple minded.

So truthful.

So obscenely condescending.

So ridiculously incorrect in its knowledge, born of a soft handed writer with a bricked home and with food on the table.

He had nothing to do. No plans, no crafted meeting for suspicious deeds.

The sky was blue, hazed with black and a net of pale stars glimmering above him, the bone colored moon lost in the dark distance. The light was hard and thin on the masses of mud and the silhouette of plants and the ground soft; jagged reeds curving around a crouched figure in a half-circle.

He existed absently, distantly, breathing the river's scent. The reflected light of lamps was orange, enveloping the riversides and glistened slickly along the rushing currents of water. His skin felt pleasantly cold, and he breathed easy, alive and immortal under the brilliant eyes of the gods.

….

Ryou hurried, his sandals slapping the stone of the streets, and crept inside the adjoining room that housed them. He unlocked the door with the silent ease of long practice, carefully moving in the dark to avoid brushing objects or disturbing sleepers.

He lay there in the dark, enveloped in the folds of his blanket, and watched the dim, brilliant light against the curve of an abandoned clay jar, half hidden below the slit above the wall. The faint moonlight angled before touching the pallets of sleeping boys, merely covering the expanse of bare ground strewn with a few straws.

Wrapping thin arms around his knees, he narrowed his eyes in thought.

It didn't do for a scribe to be too curious.

….

Dark isn't black.

Darkness is a description of things, relative to time and place. It is fleeting, easily made, never captured. Dark is not a shade, not a color. Dark is not evil, though often found where evil is done, it is not tangible, though it often appears to be; it leaves no traces. It has a strange scent, illusive and comfortable.

It casts a shadow, though rarely seen, and only by those of keen eyes.

It has a color of its own, when deepest. Commonly rumored to be velvet black, which is odd, since no mortal fabric will ever compare to it in texture, nor navy blue, it is something of a hint of red, and plum, of the color of wine in a shadowed, pale blue room, of a wilted rose, or that shade found on the night of a burned house, seen by scurrying people and interested watchers, of sorrow, of old love, or absence. Like that of dried blood on a black windowsill, sometimes seen in the glint of old, extremely precious gems that have passed multiple hands. Like avarice in a raven's eyes, and the darkness under the wings of a pigeon. Like the shadows underneath the floor stones of a temple.

Not many who have seen it choose to describe it, skipping easily to more whimsical, exciting events.

It is not a god, nor a thing to be feared, and it is special, in that way, for it serves no ruler, partakes but is not irrevocably joined; a skillful watcher at the tables of kings.

Dark, like all things, should be respected, though it cannot be abused.

It sees many strange things, and tells not one. Perhaps it would, could it speak our language; then again we have no proof it does not, merely that it has never responded to coercion.

The former, however, is doubtful.

Yet there is no denying it is an avid watcher.

….

"Thief! Help!"

Loud voices and the sound of pounding feet past their quarters broke the illusion of peace and Ryou's untroubled sleep. Around him, irritated grumbling of awakening apprentices rose in annoyance, but he choose to ignore them, focusing instead upon his former thoughts.

Thoughtfully blinking sun-dazed eyes, he propped himself up on one elbow, and shifted easily upon the tempting pallet that promised more sleep. If there were any such events that happened once, they were in the past. There was nothing to be done. Reluctant, he rose and tucked his blanket in a neat roll at the end of his meager bed and hurried out into the dusty sunlight.

Even to innocent blood spilled by a past pharaoh.

And Pharaoh was nothing less than god incarnate.

The sky was pure blue, dotted by wisps of clouds rising over the winding city that echoed the movements of the scurrying people, small as ants, bustling about morning rituals. The river dipped beside the city, winding and curving against the forefronts of the multiple harbors, their wooden posts bleached pale gray by the constant white sun that eclipsed everything, looking down upon hurrying marketplaces, awakening homes and workers, seeking out even the most hidden of corners.

And of course, what happened within them.

Ryou inwardly rolled his eyes, unwilling to listen to another round of hen picking by the cross old woman who sold figs, small and shriveled as she was, she certainly wasn't lacking for breath! He smiled politely, as was expected of him, anything less would have been immediately seen and considered an affront to the woman, who claimed to give him the best price in the marketplace…and a dozen lectures for each coin saved. He wouldn't have been here at all, except her figs _were_ the best in the marketplace, ripe and sweet and mellow, and fairly priced, because almost none would endure the tongue lashing that went along with the bargaining.

He inclined his head respectfully when she finally ran out of breath, and left with his figs before she could muster the strength for another round, slipping into the currents of moving people.

He slumped against a nearby wall gratefully; relaxing in the small shade it afforded him. Scanning the crowds for potential bullies and troublemakers, those who'd attempt to steal what he bought with his meager copper coins and beat on him and walk away laughing, so tense he nearly jumped out of his skin when someone touched his sunburnt shoulder.

Duke has golden skin and long fingertips and perfect nails, which never ceased to amaze Ryou. He smiled at Ryou with cat green eyes, deeply shaded with kohl and black and almost luminously flat with little gold spots caught from his bracelets to angle in his eyes.

Ryou relaxed instinctively, disliking Duke for that fact alone, trying to think through the dazzle of that smile to what he might want with him. Companionship, perhaps, and Ryou certainly wasn't the stupidest of all the apprentices, nor the most boring.

"Aren't you glad the old man decided to let us go today, because he was given a 'favored' invitation to the Master Architect's feast?" commented Duke, leaning against the wall as well. "Pray that his good mood lasts!"

Ryou nodded, quiet. He hadn't much to do with the other apprentice, certainly not enough so he'd be sought after to talk to aimlessly on a day of pure freedom. That fact alone was enough to put him on his guard, he mused, nervous hands brushing across stone. His fingernails were worn and stained, and his skin as pale as milk, which only served to accentuate the stains, and seemed particularly unkempt compared to the other boy. He tucked them self-consciously behind his waist, turning to look at Duke, who was still chatting aimlessly.

"Yes," he said neutrally, offering no more room for conversation or offense, and started on the path through the city. Duke fell alongside him, his shoulders slightly tensed. He smiled wryly, amused at Ryou, who felt annoyed then blankly tired.

"You certainly didn't pick me for my conversational skills," he murmured, skirting around a farmer's sack filled cart, carrying grain, most likely.

Duke followed, hurrying to keep up. "No," he admitted. "I did not. However, I was hoping you would aid me in a project of mine." Lowering his voice further, conspiratorially, he spoke again. "One of great importance."

"A mission from the pharaoh himself, no doubt," retorted Ryou, though intrigued.

"No, of course not," said Duke, shrugging. He grinned, flashing white teeth, _like a crocodile, Ryou thinks, _charming and confident. "Better."

He looked at Duke, who's still smiling, albeit more nervously now, but still golden and cat-eyed and obnoxiously blatant, and decides.

"I'm in."

…

The plan, Ryou decided, was the stupidest thing he'd ever heard. It was also the most exciting.

Apparently, an overconfident nobleman, named Lord Nebamun had decided that it would be a splendid idea to impress the Pharaoh and his court through an exotic display of magic.

It was to happen five days after the coming storm.

That's when they came in, acting as servants for extra money. And for the chance to bedazzle an important member of court.

**etc.**

**Comments;**

**First epic. Planning on twenty chapters, so this is going to be long in production, I think. Eventual** **yaoi.**

**Inspired by a truly wonderful Egyptian AU fic, and just about ten thousand bad ones.**


	2. Kuru Eruna

_Jounouchi (past)_

The sandals were stiff.

He remembered that, and the taste of salt in the back of his mouth. His tongue felt heavy, dry and big, lolling around in the empty cavern of his mouth, his arms stiff with attention at his sides. The uniform, scarlet and leather and linen made them look like huge brilliant beasts in the glare of the midmorning sun, pale damp teeth flashing amid sleek bronze skin.

He took of the heavy helmet, gilded lines and looping curves of stitched leather hot and sticky in his sweaty hands, and mopped his brow and the bridge of his nose, hesitated, shrugged, and fitted the helmet along his head again. Jou hefted his spear proudly, his pride, the part of his outfit that he took really _special_ care of, regardless of what the captain said, and rejoined the troops. They were sullenly streamed toward the white walled quarters, tiny and multiple.

They were all somewhat disgruntled, and he felt it press on him, the enormous discontent, unvoiced grumbling and murmurs like a heavy weight composed of people and noise and hot breath, and felt the _excitement_ rise up again in a colossal fist beating against his chest, so hard and fast it hurt, and he collapsed gently, wheezing, upon a bench. The beasts snarl, unwrapping themselves, like frail moths emerging frantically from cocoons, tearing at delicate flesh so ravenously he wondered why they just didn't die from exhaustion right then and there.

He knew. There was a project, a special assignment just for them, and he knew. They didn't, had resigned themselves dolefully to the endless routine of marching and training, grey meals and boring, forlorn nights. He amused himself, looking at those dry, lined faces, wondering how they would change, knowing what he did, and exulted secretly in his knowledge.

There really wasn't anything better than this, he thought.

It was night suddenly, time, urgently crashing around him in broken quick waves, startling and burnished. He moved absently, his body's reaction automatic, regular as breathing. Men moved around him as if awakening from sleep, anxiously, and he felt like sneering, laughing, yelling out his contempt into their worried faces, unafraid. He wanted to breathe, to get away from the overwhelming mass of worry, a hive of humans.

They marched in sync, sharp spears flashing in little reflections of light from the smoky torches, the smog blowing into their eyes and choking back in throats. He swallowed something bitterly arid, impulsively wanting to break the silence. The men were strangers wearing the faces of friends, familiar and cold with bright glazed eyes, and he was almost afraid.

The night was dark, unclouded and cold, and he felt so lonely. There was nothing to do but to keep up the interminable marching, lifting heavy armor with each swinging step, tiring and boring work, really. They paused for a minute to eat a crumbling handful of bread, a piece of fruit before they were off again and bits of clouds trailed over their heads, red and faint indigo.

The village was a vast disappointment, a pale splotch on the horizon, small and crowded, a few bits of wood nailed together to make up a community. The people were squat and tall, with the same sort of tiredness in their faces. He searched their faces earnestly for some sort of indication that they were truly criminals and saw instead indignation.

They herded them like sheep, the children stumbling slightly with dirty feet, the women straight-backed and proud. The sky grew dimmer above them, faintly blue as they splashed through murky water, a bitter stream that swept around the edge of the continuous sand. He shoved a dawdling girl tiredly; invigorated by the approving smiles he received. He felt happy, whole. He was a soldier.

He fingered the chalky tablet that hung around his throat; the stone was cool and comforting, as if he was holding a piece of his heart. The carving was worn, rubbed by cloth and fingers, but distinct.

_Bakura_

He repressed a grimace with difficulty, not the first of that evening.

The endless droning of his current drinking companion could almost be bearable, were it not for the underlying hint of a whine in lowered tones that set his teeth on edge.

He reached for the clay bottle, the dark speckled glaze of the jug cool and heavy in his hand, a welcome contrast to the unappealing sight of the half-drunk man beside him. Bakura traced the ridges of the vessel, running his thumb over parts of it where the glaze had thinned and feeling it's smoothness in his scarred hands. White and blue veined with cold, a contrast to the pottery in his hands, he rubbed the tips of chapped fingers together, suddenly impatient.

Rising smoothly from the table, he ignored the faint protests of the slumped man behind him. He tossed a few coins deftly into the air, the money flashing in reflected light across the room to land neatly in the innkeeper's outstretched palm.

Bakura strolled outside, carefully nonchalant. The air was cold and damp, the stars barely visible in thick darkness. He stretched, reveling in the sense of freedom, his widening eyes fixed on a distant pinprick of yellow light in the obscurely clumped marshes. It looked almost homey, like a faint beacon in the chill of night. He wasn't deceived by the comfortable appearance.

It was so very easy to believe yourself safe.

Ankle deep in murky water, he waded carefully in between small hillocks of marsh weeds and sand, grit squelching between his toes. Bakura ignored the higher ground, mindful of snakes that dwelt in such places, preferring the cool of night to the dry heat of day to seek victims. The sodden edge of his cloak flapped damply against the skin of his back, but he walked onward, his eyes still watching the approaching light, barely discernable as the silhouette of a lantern in a low window, the structure behind it fading easily into the dark.

Up close, the house was even sparser, thick planks making up the bones of the house; thinner planks and bits of salvage were used as patches. However, not a bit of light except the window shone through the driftwood, and Bakura strode towards it, shrouded in his cloak.

He entered carelessly, without knocking. There were a few men grouped around the inside of the house, which consisted of one wide, rickety room, and a small staircase at the opposite end of the room that led away into the dim upstairs. The doorway was clouded with spider-webs, pale and velvet with dust that seemed to cling to his thoughts distantly. He felt suddenly naked, and bereft of the cold night air.

The men randomly scattered at various intervals looked up intently; swarthy faces and dingy linen moving towards him eagerly. The light was thick and golden from the crowded fireplace, illuminating harsh outlines and softening features, punctuated here and there by metal hilts.

Bakura smiled into the room. The night was dark and incessant outside the small house, an oasis in the gleaming mire.

…

"What could possibly be so urgent, Bakura?" demanded one man. He was thin, with a badly dyed wig; slender scars marked his back as he shifted forward, but the flickering firelight hid the horizontal lines binding his back, making them into darkness. His dull, mud colored eyes were intent upon Bakura, blank and eager.

He shrugged fluidly, masses of draped crimson sliding off his shoulder and fading into the faint shadows that dwarfed him like a gigantic echo. The light, giving him color and vitality, outlined tensed muscles and white gray hair, like a gigantic cat preparing to spring. They drew away from him almost unknowingly, huddled in little dark groups.

"So impatient?" he asked coldly, raising a gentle eyebrow. Bakura was angry; his eyebrows slanted downward, making a bitter line above his eyes.

"It's unlike you to be to hasty. We're simply curious what event could prompt such a reaction," wheezed a small figure, sitting cross-legged against the fireplace frame.

He was a dyer during daytime, or pretended to that line of work, he was immensely proud of his short list of accomplishments, which he flaunted eagerly to any available ear. He had a strange affinity with bugs, labeling them as beautiful and clever, and presided over many small communities in which he was an invisible and yet much felt ruler. He was called Weevil by those among his trade, both during daylight and nightfall, for the resemblance to the small, crawling creatures, but wore the name proudly, as a title. He talked and listened in the same tone, a high nasal sound that seemed to come from speaking through his small nostrils, rather than his mouth, he had acne and oddly colored hair, from the dye fumes.

Bakura had never liked him, nor seen fit as to associate himself with him, yet they often turned up in the same circles, for the simple reason of pursuing a like goal, or a whisper of an allusion to one, which the Weevil loved.

Bakura nodded curtly, folding his arms, heavy fabric falling in sharp lines above his knees. He smiled, his eyes bright and coppery, something almost fascinated in his face, roving eyes never leaving the criminals' faces.

"What did you think? That I was caught, or feared guards, or had been…deposed?" said Bakura frankly, watching them avidly.

He laughed softly, his voice changing to an amused whisper, soft and grating, as if talking to children; they felt the change and resented it sullenly. "I have a proposition," he suggested softly. He paused.

The pharaoh is mine," said Bakura, suddenly furious, strong white knuckles clenching on the edge of his cloak, his expression dreamy. He stopped, startled, and plunged onward.

"Pharaoh is vulnerable.

Should we, even people like us, decide upon a course of action and follow it through, there is no one who would stop us. _They_ believe in their infallible little god upon a pedestal, _they _do not look beyond the alabaster walls of their gardens, the silver temples. They are afraid, so terribly afraid lest the tradition of centuries be broken for one man, for the sons of Ra, for themselves, and the idea that perhaps someone might decide that they are wrong. The idea is inconceivable to the devout, and none will be less! None would ever be less. They dare not even dream!"

He went on grimly, his mouth a straight line that seemed to promise untold wonders and blasphemy in the same words. The speech seemed to be almost unwilling, desperate, and they listened and subsided into murmurs.

The room was silent, a gray broken beam arching above their heads to pierce the night sky. A little light had come out to color the stars.

He was a leader, they felt instinctively, and for all those who despised him there was no gainsaying his authority. The absolute incredulity of what he was saying was marvelous, new. They were fascinated by his promises, bedazzled by the glamour of it. Imagine, having such daring as to attempt to strike at the pharaoh himself, with them by his side, reaping the glory…

He leaned forward with a sarcastic smile; something almost bitter came into his eyes as he watched the emotions play across their faces. He murmured softly to himself, almost noiselessly as the most reluctant among them debated, agreed, and refused. He could wait. He would not give up.

The question of funds was brought forward, introduced almost reluctantly by the group of men, no man would risk his own money, his future on such a thing, it was preposterous to expect that, they said pleadingly. It was too much to ask, all these men had a small amount, true, but that was for retirement in small luxury somewhere, someday…

Bakura reached for his cloak and emptied out the treasure that had weighed it down in the murky water, sodden and clinking onto the table. He stood over the amulets of kings, the necklaces and bracelets of great ladies as if he were unaware of them, his back straight.

The Weevil reached out a greedy hand before he could stop himself and pulled back, his face a mask of confusion and indignation. Casually, Bakura put a proprietary elbow on the heavy gold, leaning forward slightly. He looked away from the dark, shining jewels, the delicate wired collars and smooth, rich bands, and the glint of greed in the small eyes of his fellow criminals; the pile felt cool and uneven under his elbow.

He stared at the thick golden smoke filling the room, bright as riches and just as easily lost, at the low little fireplace and the short gray beams that lay across the windows, and listened to them, eagerly chattering, and thought, they don't know why.

They really didn't.

…

In the days that followed, Duke seemed to seek Ryou out more to talk. Mostly they discussed aimless things, like the work that they were given, but strangely enough, they rarely discussed the upcoming party. The other scribe seemed to view it as something precious, a forbidden subject, and after a while Ryou gradually fell into the same habit.

They met by the river occasionally, when the most basic of outlines for the party couldn't be put off any longer, and Ryou asked Duke why he wanted this so very badly. The light was dim among the green rushes, and his hand made absent little circular movements, stirring fine dust that blew upwards.

"Because people need entertainments, and I'm going to be the one who gives it to them. Because Egypt is overflowing with great scholars, generals, and poets, and they all choose to overlook a basic human need, the fact that people want to be entertained, and aren't.

Everyone out there leads such _boring_ lives, endless cycles of the same job, over and over again."

"That's the way things need to be. If people don't do these jobs, they won't get done. You do know that the economic structure will collapse without the common laborer, right?"

"You're grasping at straws, Ryou. Look around you. Egypt has never been more successful, or richer. We have thousands of laborers from different countries flocking here, to learn what we do, they way we do things. Even if labor eventually goes outward, there will still be enough of a population to keep jobs steady. Besides, with people like you, ones who take their jobs so seriously, I won't worry about that. You _are_ my market, that type of personality that endures an endless job without complaint, even if you are sick of it."

Ryou could see the flaws in Duke's argument, but he did have a point, to a degree. He let the allusion to his motivation slide, knowing that he was a boring person. After all, Duke was wrong in that. He was satisfied with his life, and how it was going.

There wasn't any good telling him that the market for amusements and novelties was occupied by the same people who in the other boy's mind, would supply plain work; foreigners became less interesting after a period of time, when they started to settle in Egypt.

Duke was careless sometimes when they spoke, and Ryou picked up hints that he wasn't supposed to have heard. He knew that Duke could not do this on his own, and that is what too late to get another partner, and that he planned to show a small entertainment of his own at the party. He also knew that the other boy was changeable when forced to confront facts, but that happened rarely, that he ignored reports of conquests except when he thought it would serve him in some way, that he prayed and ignored authority with equal abandon. It was easy to like him and be liked back, but that was friendship was not an important part of Duke's goals, so anyone relying on that would find themselves disillusioned, and quickly.

You think that because you can't endure your own profession that others can't, and that's where you're wrong, you and your infallible arrogance. There isn't a person here who won't adapt to work, simply because it's a necessity of life. And I'm not exactly about to fall at your feet and agree unquestioningly to your ideas, either.

I'm not his lackey, thought Ryou, and perhaps that's why he chooses me to confide in, to polish his ideas and prick at his pride. He needs me, at least for this part of his plan, and I have my own agenda, even if he is the type of person to forget who helped him easily.

How ironic.

Ryou walked single file along the goat path, sheer cliffs surrounding him. The cliffs were enormous and cleanly scrubbed by the wind, monstrosities of rusty stone brushed with sand, like a coating of fine powder. They cast sharp, infinite shadows of blue pink that swallowed his own.

He felt like an intruder among them, the colossal blocks of stone almost brushing shoulders with each other. A harsh wind whispered around him, hollow and loud in his ears. Ryou picked his way around the debris on the path, distracted.

The sky was sharply blue as it curved overhead, a dim speck that perhaps was a falcon barely visible through the crack in the overhead rock. The air was dizzying, and he crept along a ledge until that ended, and it turned into a gray-brown hillside. He scrambled upwards, coming to a little dip in the sand.

The small hollow was lined with sand, and tiny pale flowers half hidden by sharp edged grass. He sat down carefully, the sand warm beneath him, his arms wrapped around his knees, knees tucked under his chin. He watched the curve of a creamy wing flash in the air below him, and the winds flatten the tall grass. He sat. He _remembered. _

This country was hot and dry, dusty and bitter and coldly, starkly, changeable, unloving; it would steal your breath from you before you knew, leaving only a frail wind to rattle a dry husk in the unrelenting red sun. He lived there with his sister and his family, but mostly his sister.

"You'll murder someday," his sister had said, and he had been startled, then angry, his sandals scuffing the stone pavement. "I won't," he insisted, but she had smiled at him dreamily and started to drift away, except he ran up to her and shook her, afraid. His fingertips had bitten into the graying linen that she wore, and he had closed his eyes as the yellow sunlight made a bright haze in the garden. "I won't," he said, pleading, and he knew he must have bruised her afterwards, causing blood to blossom beneath her skin in petal shaped indents. He had kept his eyes shut, blank, against the faint fragrance of her hair, like earth and flowers and sweat.

The flowers smell like her hair, and he remembers that now.

"You'll murder someday," she said, smiling faintly.

**Short. Sorry, but it'll get longer…I'm a bit busy these days, but the plot is outlined. **

**Yami Hitokiri; I tend to get caught up in descriptions, sorry…and the plot, trust me, it isn't what you think it is.**

**Sazume; please don't die! Here's another chapter. And you'll have to wait and see. Next chapter, promise.**

**Ryuujitsu; Hi; hm. Thanks for answering. Please…be inspired, and keep writing! Flashes penlight in shifty eyes. **


	3. Living in the Sun

**Owning is nothing like keeping. **

…….

Ryou thinks the air should be like honey, thick and sickeningly golden. Somehow, things are never how they should be. The elegance intends to kill him slowly.

The party is _nothing,_ with bejeweled guests drifting to and fro in shrouds of white linen, fine and thin as ghosts, sipping nectar from delicate cups. He feels alone in his servile gestures, intently earnest in his offerings. Blossoms decorate their hair, wrapping around throats, and it hurts to move.

He feels bedazzled, trapped, with the delicate notes of the stringed instruments trailing to murmurs above him. The ceiling is low, painted with the frowning faces of infinite gods, as the guests slowly circle in the same ellipses as the stars. Their conversations are aimless, their eyes cold, mirrors to defend themselves against the onslaught of jewels, layer after layer of protection built from a myriad of lies. He had no such protections, and they overwhelm him. Conflicting emotions battle invisibly in the air, and he sweats.

These people have pampered hands and smooth, shining skin, and the contrast between his own skin, white and coarse as salt, startles him. His eyes blur. Ryou's skin prickles, softly shadowed and untouched by the dizzying air, as if he's a statue, a pillar as unavoidable and unseen as the royal monuments, infinite obelisks that tear holes in the clouds.

He backed away cautiously from the drifting murmurs to a dark corner, feeling behind him with one hand. With luck, nobody would notice.

Without luck. Ryou tripped, colliding with what appeared to be a smudge of color in the darkness.

The lump proved to be a small boy, probably a child, Ryou thought, who wanted to go to the party but was too young, and so he snuck down to watch, and felt a surge of empathy for the boy, both of them watching the glamour of elegant figures and languid gestures tracing the air. The boy told him earnestly that it wasn't his fault, really, and Ryou denied it politely.

He saw the glint of blue in the darkness, like a lazy eye, and saw it flashing against the copper wrist.

Ryou choked, startled, and thought suddenly, this is _one_ of the reasons that should have come up when I said it was a bad idea; you never know when you're going to come across what is either a very young thief or a very great nobleman…He thought this through again and dismissed it, turning his attention back to the child, who stared at him with pleading eyes, shadowy and enormous in the faint slant of light from down the hall.

He blinked. Once. Twice.

Good enough. He sighed, and said weakly, "I was never that cruel a person, so you needn't look at me that way."

"I know," said the boy, standing up gingerly. He smiled at Ryou, who stared back at him silently, unfazed by the appeal. The smile disappeared; then returned full force, genuine.

"What exactly are you doing here?" asked Ryou. He thought hard for a few seconds, smoothing his face into the nearest impression of sternness he could muster. If this were a thief, he would have to be either very new, and very good, or very good and very innocent, neither combinations seeming plausible. Noble children were strictly supervised, though, lest they be stolen, cursed, or should ill come to them. Highborn children were very powerful pawns.

"I'm Set's brother," he added, "H'tr", and the whole damning feeling hit Ryou with enough force to make him gasp weakly, much like a fish out of water.

He bent down and stared intently at the boy, causing him to blink a little.

The current High Priest, Set, had inherited the title at a young age, and secured it by dint of his strength, ruthless tactics and careful cunning, and was currently advisor to the Pharaoh. Not many would have named their children after him, nor used it lightly. Set was rumored to be a hard man.

"Ah," said Ryou. Set was first cousin to the king, all of the other direct heirs having died in an epidemic. He had only one other blood relative likely to inherit after him.

He started, -

Ryou started slightly, and walked towards the door. The sounds of the party drifted vaguely towards him, with a new undercurrent. The child followed him for a few steps, and then stopped. Ryou looked over his shoulder at him questioningly.

"If there's anyone in danger, it's me," he said dryly. "Please come."

The boy followed him outside. Ryou could feel his puzzled gaze on his back.

He walked into a side courtyard, small and shadowed, the low wall trailing dark vines. Their flat leaves shone faintly in the moonlight, and he found himself at a loss for words. However did he manage this? Hem netjer was unlikely to become the next Pharaoh, being in ever way as perishable as their ruler. He walked with the heir to the Two Kingdoms in lotus-scented darkness. The shadows suddenly seemed to be both fascinating and malevolent. He rubbed his arms, disturbed.

"I won't be in trouble," said the boy quickly. "Elder brother won't punish me, so none of the servants will mention this to anyone. I just wanted to see the magicians."

Ryou slanted a brow at him. "Somehow I think it will be slightly more than that," he said mildly. "Let it be sufficed to say that your brother is not exactly admired, while respected, and there will be alarms. Unless, of course, you want disappear, and maybe have your body found in a fisherman's net."

"I was bored," said the child, a bit sullenly. His hands dangled heavily at his sides, and his shoulder hunched, preparing for a fight. "Sometimes I wonder why I'm always bored."

"Don't think," suggested Ryou. His fingers traced the edge of a broken stone absently. A small purple creeper had attached itself to the reddening stone, threading through his fingers. He pulled pieces off and threw them away.

"It's a fault to think. If you think, you will inevitably become bored, and intelligence is a constant habit. Stupid people enjoy themselves as much as any."

The boy looked down, biting his lip. He tilted his head and swallowed clearly, the curve of his cheek making him appear even younger than he had to be. He perched on the edge of a gilded bench, legs swinging.

Ryou watched him, feeling the corners of his lips curl faintly upwards. His throat tasted deliciously of bitterness and sleep. He reached underneath the bench and lit the wick, settling the bowl carefully on the ground. There was a design of flowers molded on it. Sharp pebbles littered the ground underneath carelessly; he guessed it wasn't commonly used.

The boy looked up, tears gleaming on the edge of his lashes, and sniffed, swiping the back of his hand across his nose. "I wanted…I wanted to see them. They were supposed to have painted faces, and skins like ebony, and, and…necklaces made from elephant teeth and wood…"

And woolen hair, Ryou finished silently. And shoot sparks out of their mouths, and crack tables with their knuckles. Of course.

His shoulder bumped the wall encircling the little garden, cold and crumbling. He looked at the boy. He looked worried, and a little crease of skin formed between his eyes.

"You must be lonely," he said inanely, and looked at the shadows behind the bench. The plants were gardened, but the stems were crumbling. They looked black from his vantage point. It was a shame; the garden was pretty. His eyes were steady, but he pressed his fingertips against his palms.

The child didn't seem to be listening, his eyes wide and unseeing, small hands wrapped around knobby knees. "Yes," he said, absent, "afterwards, they sent me away." A curious smile began to appear around the corners of his mouth.

"They sent me away from the sickness, and their own ambitions-nobody trusted anyone with my education, but there were two perfectly good heirs, healthy…strong…" His harsh breaths were perfectly clear, the only sound in the stillness. Ryou stood motionless, almost helpless in the overwhelming, childish pain. The boy lowered his lashes, his skin faintly blue. Ryou stood near him, silent, his hands clasped behind his back.

"They brought me to a wonderful place, really: a city of salt. Imagine, a city of salt! I suppose they envisioned a sparkling city, cleansing, purifying, even, not a bunch of dull, gray huts, inhabited by silent people, as blank as the city itself... Their skin flakes off, you know," he added matter-of-factly, "and it stings…you have to be very careful when you get hurt, or you might pass out from the pain.

Their hair looks like straw. Everybody is very careful…the sand corrodes everything, so you can't tell what might be in your food, and it hurts to look at things after a while… All their mouths look like thin lines, clamped shut on secrets, and after a while you dream about fresh water. The old people are all practically blind. And when the rain comes, that's worst of all…" he shuddered, moving closer to Ryou. His skin smelled odd, with a heavy, waxy scent, milky, and a hint of something sweetly decaying.

It's rare, but it happens occasionally. I wasn't allowed outside, but it sounded like it was a thousand little creatures, creeping towards me inside the hut…I worried that the edges would melt and the slab that acts as a roof would come crashing down on me. And then the little creatures would come and step over me carefully with their small feet and creeping arms, and stare at me with lidless eyes…

And they're all fools out there, aren't they? Nobody of consequence, really, just gamblers and dolls, to stand around court…nobody who could possibly be near anybody. And none of my dear siblings visit, anyway. They-they send messages, I think. " He looked down, his hair shadowing his eyes. A small hand wrapped delicate fingers around Ryou's wrist, impossibly strong. His fingers felt sharp little knives encased in a flesh covering, digging into his skin; looking directly into his eyes, Ryou could see a little black slit in the very center of each eyes, all the color around them drained into a strange paleness, growing and shrinking in sharp, brief flashes.

Oh, thought Ryou, and threw himself forward, pushing all his weight onto the slender, soft skinned arm with its copper bones. He scrabbled furiously for the wrist digging into his own, something abruptly wet leaking down his own arm, and wrestled at the amulet. The cords seemed to be stiffly unyielding-a small hand reached around and clawed at his eyes furiously: their shadows twisted and cut sharp angles across the soft decay of the wall. He forced his body immobile against the creature, every muscle aching with the strain of keeping the berserk fury contained.

The surface of the stone was smooth and cold: he scratched desperately at the polished surface with the flint he had used to light the lamp, hands shaking, and laid the final lines, inexorably gentle. Blood throbbed in his ears.

Ryou was flung aside with a violent strength, weak as a limp doll. He lay on his back and breathed through his mouth, in hard, choking sobs. Fuzzy black dots danced on the edge of his vision, and he was distantly aware there was blood on his face.

Something horrible and angry was there, grew and gathered into itself, building, then disappeared, howling and furious. The grass rustled and was still. He tried to muster the strength to turn and look, failed, and tried again, and this time managed, propping himself on one elbow. The garden looked strangely peaceful, the ground swept clean of everything except a few torn creepers and low growing plants. The lamp flickered, and went dark. He glimpsed the twisted body of H'tr, dark and very still, and crawled forward, scraping his knees and palms.

H'tr's pulse flickered, faint, but his skin was warm, clothes a little torn by the struggle. Relieved, Ryou sat back on his heels, debating what to do, as faint sunlight appeared over the edge of the garden. He sat there, still, for a while, and when brighter light broke over the horizon, turning the bricks of the Lord's house to gold, anxious soldiers found the Heir and a white haired boy sitting upright in a side garden, sleeping.

…………

"I'm not sure I understand," said the boy plaintively, not the boy, Ryou reminded himself, the Heir, when he wasn't being not H'tr, but still the Heir, and it made his head hurt. You could have died without the technicalities, he thought for the third time, so it was a small price to pay.

He realized he was sitting, and started to get to his feet, weakly. The room was swaying lightly, catching him out of the corners of his eyes, dimply bright. H'tr poked him, and he sat down again quickly, fighting nausea.

"Grape?" asked THAT CHILD, kindly, offering an ebony bowl. Ryou shuddered, and looked away quickly, trying to control her rebellious stomach. The hot light in the room made him squint, and he couldn't quite see past the dim glare of the sun outside.

You've a name, he said, struggling to explain, slow and awkwardly truthful. He stared blankly at the light flooding the room, and did his best to explain, kindly and reasonably, that a reluctant ka of a deceased member of the royal family had possessed him, and attempted to take Ryou, too, in the bargain, because he was inconspicuously noticeable. Which didn't make much sense to him either-

"You gave me your true name," said Ryou thoughtfully. "The amulet for protection said Heir, but you gave me your real name, your-self, in a way. Why?"

H'tr looked at him. "I don't know. I guess it was because you were somebody that was needed to be trusted, and that I didn't know I was being possessed. It's funny, in a way…I thought it was of my own free will, and if it seemed a bit odd, I didn't think of it. If people can't tell when they're being possessed, then how would anyone else know? How did you guess?"

Ryou looked from the steady, curious gaze of H'tr and to the blank faced guards, acutely aware of their attention: his own eyes half closed. He spread his hands flat at his sides. "You looked well, healthy and young, and you felt wrong, like a dead bird in the middle of a packed cart: something you see and comprehend but don't consciously acknowledge."

"But you did," said the Heir softly.

Ryou nodded briefly, uncomfortable. "It's this look-like someone dying, or soon to be dead. Something in the eyes, I think. It's…

-Like something rotting slowly in the sun, and flaking off into little dried pieces."

"Thank you," said the Heir, at length, and Ryou smiled.

….

He didn't want to stay. There was a reward for his good deed, but there were always rewards: shining and silver and so smooth you couldn't hold it. It slipped through your fingers, and disappeared in fine, dripping threads.

Give it to a deserving, hard working guard; Ryou said at length, his throat hoarse from polite, bitten off words. I can't stay here. There were alabaster vases filled with lilies and the couches were carved like animals, with gleaming teeth. He felt like he'd break, that his veins would become like an old man's, shattered and splintered blue underneath his skin.

"It's just one of those things," he said. They pressed a handful of scarabs and ringed coins on him absently; his only request was a mirror, a beautiful polished oval of bronze with a notched handle. He took it and went quietly out, away from the frantic quiet of the elegant house and into the sun, which warmed his face and his shoulders. He closed his eyes and tipped back his head, and walked unhurriedly back to the shop.

They noticed he was gone, but he said he had been working for the Lady again, and smiled just like _that,_ and the other boys had looked at him strangely but gone away quietly, with less of the teasing that was normal. He didn't care.

Duke came up to him, and tried to speak to him quietly, aside from the others, but Ryou brushed him away, no longer caring to be polite. He worked silently in the room with it's little low windows and it's little lowly workers, and found himself at odd intervals in the day caught half-turned in an unfamiliar gesture. He sighed, and ignored it, as he always did.

When Duke came to talk to him the shadows were long and spidery, and Ryou was numbly fragile and achingly tired. Heat flushed underneath his skin. The other boy waited, his eyes narrowed in defense.

"I hope you had a nice time," Ryou said at last, his throat scratchy. "I wanted to-I wished you well. I did. I didn't mean…" He coughed and thought irritably that this was undignified and ungraceful, and felt ashamed in complaining. His eyes traced the lines of Duke's dusty, sandaled feet.

A hand offered him water and he drank gratefully, sipping greedily, and swiped the back of his hand against his mouth.

"Luckier than me, then," Duke said quietly. He closed his eyes and opened them again, face blankly devoid of pettiness. "Your hands," he said in surprise.

Ryou held them out before him, palms facing upwards, wrists exposed. He turned them over carefully, gently surprised. "Yes," he said at last, his voice dizzy and light, unrecognizable in his own ears, "but I did not know you had a penchant for stating the obvious."

"I don't," Duke breathed, "but this goes beyond any such scruples. You should see a healer, or a priest-run into any demons, little scribe?"

"A few," said Ryou, attempting to be neutral. "Don't…" he tried to smile and turned away. "Don't tell anyone, please. I'm not quite mad yet, or I'd prefer not to think I am, or be considered so."

"Yes," said Duke, so Ryou left. The sun was low and the horizon was striped with the shadows of doorframes, houses, roofs, and thresholds. There was a low, monotonous hum of insects, and aside from the occasional wave of a palm-leaf fan, the people crouching in the shadows could have been clay. He did not want to go back to the Quarters, or anywhere else, really.

I'm spoiled; he thought pettishly, too much to regain a footing in the _real _world, full of things like beer and onions and bread and hemp sandals, and plain, dull people. It's not that they're not human, it's that…there are people who do not act like people, who are more of human and human traits than anything like the ones who live normally, prosaically, and cannot do anything but comprehend of such things dimly; and those are our values, or Gods, or ideals. And I am too much of an idealist to care for that.

And that's the most frightening thing.

Being proven wrong is a blessing, then.

…

**I'm sorry for the lateness of this chapter, but I fear it falls too short of my ideas. That's bad writing, then. **

**The most I'll ask of you is honesty. **


End file.
